The Picture of Draco Malfoy
by Froody
Summary: Back at Hogwarts for a belated seventh year, Draco Malfoy discovers a mirror that sees too much. Ironically, Harry Potter then discovers Draco, and also sees too much. Stupid stalking git.
1. Narcissus

**A/N: And voila, my first venture into the snarky realms of Draco/Harry romance. This chapter is the first (and shortest) of three, so look out for more. **

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"Like what you see, Narcissus?"

Draco's neck whipped about so fast that he wasn't quite able to erase all traces of panic from his expression before meeting Potter's eyes. He could just feel that damnable flush crawling up his neck and poisoning his cheeks with red. If there had been anyone left to beg, Draco would have taken a moment to grovel wholeheartedly.

Please, let some small scrap of his dignity be preserved.

"Is that supposed to be a slur on my mother, Potter?" he snarled, struggling against a strengthening maelstrom of panic. Pick a fight, get Potter out of there – anything, but quickly, before he noticed…

Potter had the nerve to look taken aback. Gryffindor's prize git appeared to rerun his last words through his head. Something of a smile twisted his lips as realisation apparently struck. Stupid nonce.

"No, actually. I'm just concerned about this sudden outbreak of vanity."

Pulse thrumming hotly in his fingertips, Draco slowly turned back and tried to meet his own eyes in the mirror. It seemed Potter couldn't see what Draco was seeing reflected before him. Thank Merlin for small mercies. He was saved for now.

As panic slowly receded, Draco settled back on his haunches with a very practiced semblance of ease. He glared towards the reflection and felt a bit sick. He thought. Quickly.

"What's it to you, Potter? Not the first time you've stumbled upon me with a mirror."

Draco couldn't help it; he felt his flush deepen. His skin crawled with the vivid memory of his humiliation. Shivers of repulsion helped to sharpen his focus; Potter would never again be privy to the sight of Draco Malfoy in tears. He bit out the last with added venom: "I thought we'd had done with all this in sixth year, to be honest."

Mentioning the sixth year fiasco: genius stroke. Feed the guilt, send Potter scurrying, and then try out some of those rather interesting tricks favoured by the ancient Samurai wizards he'd read about during the endless summer. Flawless plan, really.

"I think you've got something there, Malfoy."

Surely not.

"What?" Draco managed. He almost sounded calm, too. Impressive.

Potter's voice sounded somehow closer, though Draco was sure he'd have heard any approaching footsteps. He refused to turn around. This entire scenario was too ridiculously painful to be reality, and hence had to be a nightmare. If Draco shut his eyes and screamed loudly, perhaps this would all would fizzle out like the old ferret dreams. He drew a deep breath and snapped his eyelids shut, but Potter spoke first. Typical.

"Well, after all's said and done, I think it's about time we moved past that business."

"Business!" Draco half-burbled, jaw staggering down and collapsing about his knees. He kept his eyes shut. "You almost killed – the scars–"

"I mean," continued Potter, seemingly oblivious to the structural collapse of Draco's mental world, in which Harry Potter preened upon a podium of morals and integrity, "you did provoke me. With the threat of torture, and all."

Draco Malfoy was absolutely _not_ impressed by this inherently Slytherin style of reasoning. Potter may have been the saviour of the wizarding world, but he was not allowed to suddenly champion logic at this late point in their respective careers.

He wondered vaguely whether Potter's tune would change if Draco removed his shirt and displayed the lingering physical evidence of that bathroom affair. Then he remembered the mirror, and he refused to wonder any longer. The nausea was returning.

"Yes, well, let's just forget it, then," said Draco shortly, attempting to inject a healthy dose of sarcasm into his words, and somehow failing. "I don't much care, anyway. Permanent scarring seems to follow you about, so I'm not surprised that my scars don't bother you."

It wasn't worth it. If Potter was hanging out for bloody redemption through reverse psychology (truly an inspiring check-mate in the Slytherin game of chess), then Draco wasn't about to do him the favour.

Surprisingly enough, Potter did seem a bit disconcerted by this information. Draco was glad. Maybe belated guilt would keep the prick awake for a couple of nights. It'd serve him right.

"What the hell are you doing here anyway, Potter?" Draco spat, opening his eyes in order to _glare_, and he honestly wanted an answer. Either this was the Moste Evil (and Convoluted) work of some gleefully sadistic Karma fairy, or Potter really had regressed to his stalkerly habits of school years past.

Potter flushed; a crimson tide rose deliciously in his cheeks, and Draco's hopes soared like snitches. Voyeurs are always preferable to divine justice: article 678 of the Malfoy creed.

"You've been following me about, haven't you?" Draco said, possibly failing to conceal all of his relief (not that Potter seemed to notice). His back stiffened as he considered the short range of reasons for Potter's surveillance. Surely the bespectacled git didn't think Draco was still under the employ of the Dark Side?

He'd been cleared at trial, hadn't he? As the son of a principle Death Eater, with witness accounts of his involvement in torture, and, most damnably, with irrefutable evidence tattooed upon his left arm, Draco had been guilty until proven innocent.

Proving his innocence had required both Veritaserum and Potter's favourable testimony. Draco had tried valiantly to forget Potter's hand in the outcome of his trial, but never quite succeeded. When he'd come back to school, Draco had been determined to avoid the sanctimonious bugger at all costs, mostly in order to avoid having to thank him. Draco owed Potter. It killed him.

It seemed that Potter hadn't received the message. What in Merlin's name did Potter the People's Hero still want with him? Surely he wouldn't have helped Draco avoid Azkaban if he'd secretly suspected him of ongoing dastardly behaviour.

Draco almost snorted. The dastardliest thing he'd done recently was breaking into the school kitchens. He hadn't even terrorised the house elves; he just didn't have the taste for it these days. Taking meals in the Great Hall was simply not an option for the only known ex-Death Eater to return to Hogwarts. Draco himself didn't really know why he'd bothered coming back, honestly. It wasn't like a decent education would help him find a job in any Western wizarding country.

Finally, Potter deigned to answer. Maybe it had taken him that long to think of a viable excuse. Draco was almost intrigued. It was much too late, of course; Potter's embarrassed silence had already confirmed Draco's suspicions.

"Don't be an idiot, Malfoy. Why would I follow you?"

"So I keep asking myself," Draco muttered, pulling at loose threads in the carpet of the disused classroom that had inexplicably housed this wretched mirror. "Is it the hair? The intellectual conversation? Good old-fashioned voyeurism?"

"I couldn't sleep, and I noticed this door was ajar, you bloody narcissist," snapped Potter, and made little scuffling noises which might have accompanied some sort of scrabbling to his feet. Draco wondered how long he'd been sitting on the carpet. What was this, some sort of girly heart-to-heart?

"Again with the careless slights on my mother, Potter," he said, deliberately directing his gaze at a safe mid-point between his unwanted companion and the mirror's reflection.

"You're so full of yourself, Malfoy," Potter replied, and his voice seemed to be coming from the approximate location of the doorway. "Keep drowning in your own reflection all night, I don't care – but maybe try some introspection sometime. Look a bit deeper than that bloody mirror."

Draco's head snapped about again, and his neck twinged tetchily, but Potter had gone. Was it possible he'd known something about this mirror?

This had to be a nightmare. No other feasible options.

Draco buried his face in his hands and imagined the absolute bliss of being blind.


	2. Dorian Gray

**A/N: Part 2 of 3, lovely readers. Things get a touch more interesting. Please REVIEW post-story and tell me what you think!**

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Draco stared into the mirror and tried not to see. It was interesting paradox. Didn't work, in any case. Draco saw everything, oh yes, he did. Made him want to scratch out his eyeballs, of course, but the sight would still be imprinted on his brain.

It would be much, much easier if the mirror simply showed him his reflection. Draco would still be presented with a tragic spectacle (he was under no illusions when it came to his current physical appearance), but that one would be expected. It wasn't that Draco had ever really admired his own looks, but he was aware that the previous few years hadn't exactly brought much improvement.

Service to the Dark Lord had come at a great price, and that price included a tax on the health of each individual Death Eater. The circles under Draco's eyes looked like smudged ink on a careless student's parchment. His pointy face had sharpened, and now looked thin in a mean, miserly way. The overall effect of his exaggerated pallor and obvious sleep deprivation was to make him look as sickly as a werewolf on the eve of a full moon. Not exactly the complexion desired by the masses.

Still, he was rather used to mirrors of the ordinary kind. He avoided looking in them, of course, but he knew what he'd find if he bothered to check. To be honest, he found it a wonder that anyone would want to look at him in this state – and yet Draco could have sworn that Potter had been watching him from the Gryffindor table that morning at breakfast. Trust Potty. Then again, Potter was a famous companion of werewolves. Or had been.

Draco shivered.

As hideous and depraved and terrifying as this mirror's reflection was, Draco found that he just couldn't stay away. He had to see. He had to see so he could reassure himself, over and over, that it wasn't what he wanted to see. Every few minutes, his eyes would flick over to the foreign words carved into the mirror's frame, and he would pretend that he didn't understand them.

"Still admiring yourself, Malfoy?"

Draco's shoulders snapped taut with tension, and he fought to suppress a startled squeak. Surely not _again_.

"Stop stalking me, won't you?" asked Draco, with little hope of ready acquiescence. "It's getting old."

In an infuriatingly casual and resigned manner, Potter dared to shrug.

"Nothing better to do, to be honest. I'm not particularly afraid that you'll think any less of me for continuing along with my well-worn stalkerly ways."

Draco bristled. Logic had no place in these contestations.

"Why would you care what I think of you, anyway?" he said eventually, glaring steadfastly at the glass before him. "Go back to your devoted masses, why don't you?"

"If I wanted people fawning over me all day, Malfoy, I'd hardly strike up conversation with you, would I?"

Despite himself, Draco smiled.

"A voyeur _and _a masochist – my, my, Potter, this is getting interesting."

Potter snorted. "You don't want to hear my opinion of you, Malfoy. Especially not the part about what I think of your hours spent staring into that mirror."

"I know what you think of me." For some reason, Draco couldn't summon the will to sharpen his tone to a sneer. He stared forward into the glistening glass, and traced grey eyes with his own. He felt like crying, but he would not give Potter a repeat performance, never never.

When Potter spoke, his smirk was audible. "Do you, Dorian?"

Draco's eyes twitched from the mirror. Incredulity snatched away from his sense of the immediacy of his impending doom. "Have you finally gone wrong, Potter? I know you never use my first name (and hardly have permission to do so), but I would still expect–"

"Dorian Gray, you twat," said Potter, and yes, his stupid lips were curled up into a stupid mocking smile. The lips lowered a little after a moment, when Draco continued to glare his confusion into Potter's stupid face.

"A character from a famous Muggle story," Potter offered, prompting Draco to roll his eyes in instinctive derision. "He traded his soul for eternal beauty. When he did evil things, they were reflected in his portrait instead of on his face."

Draco widened his eyes in false shock. "You think I keep this fit by selling my soul?" It was a hilarious suggestion. The irony was palpable. He refused to look into the mirror.

For a moment, Potter seemed to choke. Absently, Draco wondered if he'd finally managed to harness some wandless magic and subconsciously sent a startled _crucio_ across the room.

"God, _no_!"

"Well, thanks a lot, then," Draco sniffed, feeling ridiculously put out.

Potter looked like he quite wanted to change the topic of conversation. Immediately.

"So who's the fairest of them all?"

"I beg your pardon?" Draco was sure he'd misheard.

"Well, I just assumed it was an evil mirror."

It sounded almost like Potter was grinning. Lunatic.

"Oh, it is," Draco hastened to agree, "it is. Evil. Wrong. Completely, completely untrue."

A faint noise from the doorway presaged a quiet gasp, as if Potter had stumbled forward a pace without meaning to.

"Surely not," he said (rather cryptically, thought Draco with a considerable twinge of irritation). "It couldn't be."

"Oh, I assure you, it is," said Draco, eager to correct any such misapprehension. "I've never seen such a disgracefully foul reflection in my life, and I've shared a bathroom with Cra–" The words died out in his mouth. Draco's eyes slid slowly shut, and he had to breathe through his nose for a moment.

Potter, with uncharacteristic sensitivity, stayed silent.

"Sorry," Draco said eventually, his own voice sounding odd and rough to his ears. "I believe I was just commenting on the truly evil and malicious nature of this mirror."

"Alright, now I'm curious," Potter said as he stepped forward, and, with unbelievable impudence, settled to his knees on a patch of carpet rather too close for Draco's comfort.

"Curious?"

"I just remembered where I've seen this particular mirror before," Potter said quietly, gazing forward into the glass with an intensity that filled Draco with dread. If he looked too hard, Draco thought (rather illogically), Potter might see what Draco was seeing, and then the entire world would come to an end, and Draco would have to off himself immediately with, well, whatever he had in his pockets, and he was pretty sure _that_ was only an acorn husk and a sandwich wrapper, so it was sure to be a messy death.

Draco fought a swift onslaught of vertigo, and suddenly noticed that Potter was being rather too quiet for his liking.

"You always keep a mental stock of mirrors?" he said, throwing a bit of a wild insult into the mix. Draco was never at his best when contemplating his own acorn-inflicted suicide.

With a disconcerting suddenness, Potter glanced around to Draco, an odd look in his eyes. The green was offset with something terribly akin to sympathy.

"You know what this is, don't you?"

"I do know what a mirror is, Potter," replied Draco, and the sense of dread reached its second wind, and gleefully intensified.

"Dumbledore told me what is was in first year," said Potter, and he turned back to the mirror and stared almost hungrily at the surface – or perhaps deeper. "He told me not to dwell on what I saw. It shows not your face, but your heart's desire, you know," he continued, with a certain unbearable compassion directed at Draco from behind those awful glasses.

"It doesn't," Draco whispered fiercely, and then wished he'd spoken a bit louder, so he didn't sound quite so terrified. He cleared his throat. "It really doesn't. Really," he added, just to be very, very clear. Not that Potter could see what he saw.

Draco fingered the acorn husk in his pocket.

"You know what I see?" Potter said, and again, his attention was directed at the mirror.

"A speccy berk with a blind surrealist for a barber?"

This brilliant piece of rapier wit was either unnoticed, or ignored, by the speccy berk in question.

"It's just like it was back then, or almost," Potter began, and his voice was light and wistful, and his words made no sense. "I'm surrounded by my family – except Dumbledore's there. And there's Professor Lupin," he said, smiling, "still got the same scratched-up briefcase as third year. And Sirius," Potter murmured, and Draco was truly startled by the desperate longing that shone in those green eyes.

He'd been privy to gossip of Potter's connection to the Sirius Black scandal during his time at Voldemort's side. Despite all appearances to the contrary, Draco did feel deeply sorry for his schoolyard nemesis, bereft of everything that resembled a father figure. Then again, more recently, he felt increasingly jealous.

"Er," Draco began, and felt that his loquacity had rather let him down. "I'm, well, I'm sorry."

He really was. It surprised him. It worried him, too, and he kept his eyes firmly cast away from the mirror before him, lest he begin to panic.

"We're all sorry, aren't we?" said Harry – no, Potter, damn it! Draco was quite sure that _Potter_ didn't mean his words to sound quite so sickeningly sanctimonious, but he chose to follow that interpretation because Draco existed to fulfil his role as the metaphysical thorn in Potter's side, no matter what that stupid mirror showed.

"Yes, we're all so very sorry," Draco sneered, and felt a little bit better for quashing that annoying internal yapping supposedly called a conscience. "I bet you cry into your pillows at night, positively brimming with regret for having saved the entire world and cementing your eternal position as society's worst-dressed hero."

Draco could have continued in a similar vein for quite some time – and yet he felt his mouth swinging shut as Potter directed an extremely pointed dagger of a look at his face.

"Do you cry into your pillows at night, Draco?" he said, and his voice was so quiet and serious that Draco almost forgot to be completely outraged at Potter's unprecedented use of his first name. Potter didn't wait for an answer, and besides, Draco had none prepared. "I do. Can't sleep most nights."

Not knowing what to say, not knowing what to do, Draco looked away from those eyes that saw too much, and massaged his neck with an unsteady hand.

"I'm guessing that's why you come here," Potter continued, and Draco could tell that those emerald eyes hadn't shifted an inch. "Or, at least, why you came here at first. I suppose you keep coming back for the same reason I do."

Draco's eyes shot up at that, and he was caught and held by the incisive gaze that met him.

"Why do you come back?" he breathed, feeling the old familiar panic crash straight back into his veins like a lightning bolt.

Potter climbed to a kneeling crouch and paused for a moment, looking down at Draco with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Curiosity."

He left. Draco, head bowed, listened to the sound of departing footsteps fade over the threadbare carpet, and entirely failed to remove the image of knowing green eyes from his head.


	3. The Mirror of Erised

**A/N: Part the Third - and the end of this little H/D fic. Hope you enjoy it!**

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"You can take off the cloak now," said Draco, and his voice was flat with an utter lack of surprise.

After a startled moment, Potter popped into view one limb at a time, a perturbed expression scrawled across his face. An invisibility cloak certainly explained a lot of previously inexplicable incidents. Draco rather coveted the silvery folds that slid quite unceremoniously to the carpet. He'd have to find a way to blackmail the use of that cloak out of Potter.

"How did you–?" Potter began, but stopped when Draco gave an imperious wave of dismissal. Potter seemed fairly shocked.

"Hush now, Potter," said Draco, who, on this third instance of unwelcome intrusion, no longer saw the point of being intimidated by a stalker git of Gryffindor proportions. "Didn't your Muggle relatives ever tell you that nosiness snuffed out the nargle?"

"Not as such, no," Potter managed, and his startled air gave way to a reluctant smile.

"Trust a Muggle," muttered Draco, rolling his eyes heavenward, and found himself oddly pleased when Potter's smile cracked into a proper grin. It was extremely disconcerting.

"Is that another wizarding proverb, or just one of your own?" Potter teased (he _teased_? Potter dared to tease Draco?), and now Draco realised that he was grinning back. This really was a disgraceful turn of events.

"Muggles aren't all that bad, you know," Potter said casually, walking forward and sitting in a position that pointedly denied a view of the mirror's reflection. Draco's eyes twitched towards the glass, but he tried doubly hard to focus on Potter's insane drivel. "Excepting my relatives, of course."

"I just don't understand how they live without magic," Draco said, feeling the unprecedented need to explain himself. "It's unnatural. Squibs are bad enough. They know what they're missing out on. But Muggles," he pulled a face, noting the lack of immediate censure on Potter's, "they don't even realise. They just compensate for their weakness, and they don't even, they don't–"

"Does it worry you how powerful people can be without magic?"

Draco felt that he was being criticised without really understanding why, and he bristled in confusion. "My father told me all about the atomic bomb," he said fiercely, and then cringed. He had promised himself that he would never rely on his father's opinions again. However, he thought that in this instance the point still stood.

"People like to kill other people, I think," said Potter, a shade pulling swiftly over his face. Just as suddenly, the shade lifted, and Draco was unsettled to find a reluctant smile drawing about Potter's lips. "Who knows why anyone wants to do these crazy things?"

Draco mumbled indistinctly, trying to convey his general agreement without actually committing to anything.

"Who knows why we want anything?" Potter continued, in that rather annoying post-war philosophical tendency of his. Draco was about to respond with some scathing riposte about knowing exactly why he wanted Potter to bugger off, when Potter fixed him with that terrifyingly shrewd look of his.

"What is it that you want, Draco?" Potter seemed determined to maintain this shallow appearance of a willing companionship between them.

Draco felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead, so easily visible to Potter, and he refused to look into the mirror.

"I'll tell you when I know."

"What do you see in the mirror?" Potter pressed, sounding honestly curious. Draco hated, hated, hated bloody inquisitive Gryffindors.

"My boggart."

"No offence, Draco," said Potter, very obviously suppressing a smile, "but you seem a little bit messed up."

"Do I?" asked Draco, and coughed out a rather dry laugh. "Do I really? Shocking."

"It can't be that bad, can it?" Potter let himself grin. "After all, you're talking to the 'voyeur _and_ a masochist' here."

"That'd be right," Draco said to himself, and pressed his face into his knees. Maybe if he curled in on himself enough, he'd manage to form a cocoon, and emerge somewhere in the vicinity of never.

"You know," Potter carried on, evidently ignorant of the metamorphic nature of Draco's thoughts, "whatever perverted things you're seeing in that mirror, it's really not healthy to keep obsessing over it. You should let it go, Draco." He paused, and the pause became protracted, and a peculiar tension grew tangible.

Draco raised his head irritably. "Something to say, Potter? I advise you to spit it out before I emerge as a very rare and lethal specimen of butterfly."

Potter looked momentarily nonplussed, but decided to acquiesce anyhow. "You don't – that is to say, your heart's desire isn't Voldemort's return or something, is it?"

"Merlin no," said Draco immediately, nauseated at the very thought of yet another Dark Lord resurrection. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, then," Potter said, looking relieved though hesitant, "you don't harbour any ambitions of becoming the next great Evil Overlord, then, do you?"

"I don't think so, Pothead. That throne is yours alone, don't worry."

Potter frowned. "Then I don't see what could be so terrible – unless you fancy house elves, or something."

Draco squeezed out a horrified burst of laughter, and then curled back in on himself. Stop guessing, please stop guessing, house elves were far too close to the truth. Well, not _that_ close, that was disgusting, he'd never wipe _that_ image from his head, but –

"Er," Potter interrupted, and then continued to just sit there, looking a little anxious and hesitant and entirely too confused to allow Draco to forget that his train of thought had just been thoroughly derailed by an inane interjection.

"Well, out with it, then," Draco said, sufficiently irritated to forget that he was supposed to be quashing any further speculation.

Potter coughed, clearing his throat. "How did you know I was here, anyway?" he asked uncomfortably.

"I saw you, stupid."

"Through my invisibility cloak?"

"No," Draco snorted, rolling his eyes, "in the mirror, what do you think?"

Oh, Merlin, no. He hadn't. Surely he hadn't said that.

They both froze, shocked. Slowly, very slowly, Draco slumped down into his hands and tried to sink through the floor without causing unnecessary fuss. To be honest, the possession of a wand would have made the task slightly easier. Oh, for that solitary acorn husk that had been in his pocket last night…

"In the mirror?" Potter repeated, very slowly, and Draco, while refusing to listen to anything more on this mortal coil, could tell that his tone was one of shocked disbelief. "This mirror?"

"No, my compact," Draco bit into his fingers (which would have been extremely painful if not of a metaphorical nature). "Yes, this bloody mirror of _desire_. Now please leave me alone. I'm sure it won't be easy to figure out how to kill myself armed solely with a single Bertie Botts bean."

"Unless it's snot flavoured," Potter said distantly, and made noises that suggested that he was climbing to his feet in preparation for a hasty exit from this Room of Madness and Despair.

"You're quite right," said Draco, already chewing, "but no. Treacle flavoured. Just my luck."

"Oh, sorry," Potter said, as if he wasn't quite sure what he was saying, or why he was apologising, or what an apology was, and made noises that suggested that he was wiping hands slick with sweat and fear on his robes. Quite disgusting, really. Draco wished he'd stop it.

"Well, er," Potter continued, obviously in full possession of his normal articulacy, "er, that is."

"Death be quick," Draco muttered, already gaining a sense of what Hell would be like.

"Stand up, would you?"

Draco opened one eye, and froze up at the completely unexpected sight of a hand dangling centimetres from his head. He opened the other eye, and realised that the hand was attached to a distinctly crimson Potter. Expecting relief, and instead experiencing a wave of misery, Draco swayed forward and accepted the help of a wizarding saviour whose hero complex evidently knew not the meaning of a 'break'.

As soon as possible, Draco snatched his burning hand back, and clutched it to his chest, feeling an ounce of odd relief that he could not possibly look more pathetic to Potter than he did right now.

"Just don't tell anyone, alright?" he told his shoes, silently cursing the inventor of mirrors for all subsequent sorrow and destruction.

"Draco?"

Draco really didn't want to look up, but he did anyway. After all, Potter was his heart's desire; Draco probably couldn't refuse him anything. The Karma fairy was definitely living it up at Draco's expense.

Draco looked up, and was greeted by two very large and very earnest green eyes, which were rather closer than expected.

"Potter?" he all but squeaked, backing up automatically, away from that very troubling expression in those eyes.

"Call me Harry, alright?"

"Well, alright," Draco conceded, conceding a great deal of ground.

"You really like me?" Harry asked wonderingly.

"The mirror says yes," said Draco, really preferring not to ask himself the same question. Suppressed Inner Draco said yes, too, but Draco pretended not to hear. He could preserve some dignity, after all.

Harry just smiled, and Draco felt the wall climb up coldly against his back. He shivered as his thin jumper failed to keep out the chill. He shuddered again as hands gently gripped his forearms, but this time the cold had nothing to do with it.

Without giving them permission, his eyes crept down to Harry's lips, which looked very pink and a little like they'd been recently chewed. As Draco watched, the bottom lip was slowly caught by the upper set of teeth. It was an oddly endearing gesture of nerves.

Almost unconsciously, Draco felt himself mimic the same movement, catching his own bottom lip, and then releasing it as he ran his tongue swiftly over his lips. Harry gasped or sighed or exhaled, Draco wasn't entirely sure which, but it was quiet and tense and somehow _exciting_.

"So, um, is this the same advice Dumbledore gave you back in first year?" said Draco, going for breezy and instead breaking through to a whole new level of awkwardness.

"Not really," said Harry, but he didn't seem to be focussing on the conversation at that moment, which was unmistakeably a point in Draco's favour. It wasn't like he'd personally killed Dumbledore, quite the opposite, in fact, but the guilt still lingered and it was pricking up its head right now like Fluffy at an operatic interval.

The pressure on Draco's arms hadn't lifted at all – quite the opposite, in fact.

"Do you," Draco started, and then cleared his throat noisily, "do you, well," he reminded himself that it wasn't possible to sink any further in Harry's estimation, not that he cared, anyhow, "do you like me?"

"Not sure, to be honest," said Harry in the same even tone of voice, just staring and staring into Draco's terrified eyes.

"Right," said Draco, feeling a bit all over the place, even while firmly pinned to the wall.

"But I think I do," Harry said, leaning in that little bit closer, and causing Draco to suck a breath right through his teeth, "and I don't think a mirror's going to help me figure it out."

"As long as we've got that sorted," said Draco, finding some comfort in inanities. Maybe this was where Gryffindors found their relentless bravado.

"Won't you ever shut up?" Harry breathed, and Draco didn't, and he just watched instead, dumbfounded, as those chewed-up lips came closer and closer and then press-touched – jolted – against his own.

Then Draco finally breathed, and his eyes fluttered shut, and the wall came away from his back as he leaned forward into what was unmistakeably supposed to be a kiss. It felt like a kiss; it felt like heaven. He made a small noise in the back of his throat (or Harry did), but either way it was thrilling, and now his hands were tangled in the tangle of hair that he'd hated desperately for around about seven years.

Even as his pulse quickened, lips opening gently against Harry's (and then not so gently), Draco felt his confidence returning. Oh, this was delicious. He could work this to his advantage. Pushing off blindly against the wall, and careering the both of them rather unsteadily into the room proper, Draco bumped his way around until he felt the unmistakable cool of glass against an outstretched hand.

With a grin of triumph, he pulled away from Harry's eager mouth, and watched dilated green eyes blink quickly into view.

"Don't need a mirror to tell me what I liked about that," said Draco, smirking wholeheartedly up at a thoroughly snogged wizarding saviour. "But tell me one thing, Potter."

"Harry," said Harry, evidently a tad dazed.

"Tell me, _Harry_, what exactly is the mirror showing you now?"

Harry blinked away from Draco's lips, and focused in on the mirror that Draco had steered them in front of.

"Less clothes, for one thing," Harry said, finally breaking into a smile of his own, and Draco felt happy for the first time in a long while. He could hardly see the point of selling his soul for beauty – but for those lips, well, that was another question.

**THE END**


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